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He was enamored of the transition of power, the smooth and steady way in which control of the state – the fate of it, even – passed between the hands of two diametrically-opposed men at a prescribed hour on a prescribed day quadrennially. From a geopolitical standpoint, Southeast Asia is a tough neighborhood, dominated by coups, strongmen, and authoritarianism of many stripes. Such an overt display of democracy was the stuff of lore there and Nao Kao drank it down to the last, glistening drop.
It must have been around this time that he found my haunt in the law library. At first, he would come and study, asking occasionally my opinion on a journal article or two, his whispers rising through the rafters, drawing hard stares and ire from the law students occupying the nearby chairs. He thought I spent too much time there, telling me so as sunlight gained on darkness and tentative birdsong filled the air.
When he decided he had had enough of these bookish habits, he would show up with a container of takeout, luring me away to the Union, where we swapped stories of the lives we had led. For all my worldliness, I was oblivious to the expense those little white boxes represented to him, to what those hours tucked in the big wooden booths in the Union basement cost him.
We would laugh about my misadventures in Rio and Rome as we devoured cartons of Pad Thai, or I would try to explain why the local Meijer carried forty-seven varieties of orange juice but not one of black vinegar as we made quick work of a pile of fried rice. The owner of the little Thai place in the Union food court was a family friend; she would often supplement our takeout with the higher-end fare from her restaurant. Soon mounds of soft, rubbery squid, their suction cups working against the tongue, or steaming bowls of spicy Tom Yum Goong heaping with shrimp, became regular parts of our dinners. I knew, though, that its rankled Nao Kao to accept Khaliya’s generosity and I never did take her up on her offer that we be her guests at her Kerrytown restaurant.
Generally, I talked and he listened, a steady stream of chattery opinions as we studied or slurped noodles.
“Nao Kao, did you see the headline inThe Michigan Dailytoday? The one about the Law School ruling? It seems like a bad loss for the U.”
“Nao Kao, did I tell you about the time the Brazilian customs office confiscated a box of textbooks my dad was shipping and then harassed him for months about coming to São Paulo to bid on it at auction?”
“Nao Kao, which do you think is the better movie:American BeautyorAmerican Pie?”
“Nao Kao, do you know that scene inFerris Bueller….
“Did you see the state is considering slashing funds for colleges and universities….
“Are you going to resell your textbooks? I’m trying to decide if I should keep any of mine…”
Occasionally I was rewarded with more than a chuckle, a raised eyebrow, or an mmm-hmmm.
“What do you think about the Naked Mile? You’ve heard of it, right, and that last year the police cracked down on the runners? I don’t think they’re going to do it this year.”
“The Naked Mile? Remind me again about that.” I still only had half of his attention as he skimmed through a stack of journal articles.
“It started, I don’t know, probably ten or fifteen years ago. A bunch of guys decided to celebrate the end of the semester by stripping naked and running through campus.”
Nao Kao snapped his head up.
“Say that again. They were naked? Entirely?” His words rang with the sounds of scandal and disbelief.
“Buck naked, Nao Kao. Birthday suits.”
“And they can do that? It is legal?”
“I guess so. I think it might be like Hash Bash – it’s not exactly legal, but…” I shrugged, thinking how to explain the vagaries of not only American culture but ultra-liberal Ann Arbor to someone who had grown up under communism.
“The police have said no one even called the cops. It’s like people were just used to seeing naked men running around town or something. But then it got too big, you know? Thousands of spectators began to arrive after women started running –”
“Women also do this thing?” Alarm and consternation filled Nao Kao’s voice; I imagine he was considering the possibility that his daughters might engage in such mischief twenty years from now, should they ever fall under the influence of a pack of wayward Americans.
“Well not anymore. Like I said, the cops cracked down last year and…” I sensed palpable relief that law and order had been restored and Nao Kao relaxed his shoulders and returned his full attention to the articles spread before him.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Reticent, almost taciturn, by nature, I couldn’t help but feel lucky on those occasions when Nao Kao would throw in a few words about life in Laos. He would tell me of the Lao people’s relationships with the water and soil, the intimate connection with the land, the belief that the river was like a person and must be treated with the same warm kinship. He explained that, whether for reasons entirely mythical or partially historical, the whole of the ancient kingdom of Champasak was considered cursed by illegitimate pregnancy, with every woman expected to sacrifice a buffalo every year. “Actually,” Nao Kao added, almost as an afterthought, “in some villages unmarried mothers were expected to sacrifice a buffalo for their sins until quite recently.” When I discovered that “quite recently” extended through my school years, I thanked my lucky stars that come what may – or what perceived sins – in my life, no animal sacrifice would be expected of me.
My favorite stories were the ones that offered color and texture about his own life. If I was fortunate, Nao Kao might tell me of the market days when he helped his parents, carefully balancing baskets of such unfamiliar foods to me as mung beans or galangal root, as well as the ubiquitous rice, atop his head as they made their way down the roads, muddy or dusty, depending on the season.
He told me of the jackfruit trees, where the fruits easily reached twenty pounds, and tamarind trees whose unassuming, brown pods yielded sweet, tangy pulp. He told me about the first time he saw an airplane, about the aid workers who had sparked his interest in the wider world, about the bout of childhood malaria that nearly killed him. After he told me of the flooding rains that washed much of life away one wet season when he was in high school, he apologized for boring me with so much detail.
“Why would you say that?” I asked, exasperation heavy in my voice.
“I guess I’m just not used to talking about myself so much.”
“You should practice more often, Nao Kao. You always make me do the heavy lifting in our conversations,” I said, only half-joking.
